


Let Not the Marriage of True Minds Admit Impediments

by twelve_pastels



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Abuse of Shakespeare, Author Can't Write Porn, Author Has A Mental Affliction, Bad Math, Crossdressing, F/M, Real People Reading RPS, Sex Between Married People, gratuitous Chad, gratuitous Newfieness, gratuitous Scottishness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelve_pastels/pseuds/twelve_pastels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is a coward. He admits this. But there is nothing he ever, ever could have done, onscreen or off, to deserve having his girlfriend walk onto set with Misha’s junk swinging out in the wind, and Jared attempting to yank Jensen’s shorts down so they can ask Sera to compare their asses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Not the Marriage of True Minds Admit Impediments

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published at my LJ January 6, 2010. Thanks to [](http://misslucyjane.livejournal.com/profile)[**misslucyjane**](http://misslucyjane.livejournal.com/) for the beta work.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** SO not real.  
>  _ **Author's Note:** 1\. The thing with a fried egg on top of pancakes is called a Trucker’s Breakfast. I have seen it eaten in polite company. 2. According to my sketchy research, the Ackles family would wear the MacKenzie tartan. 3. Big points to anyone who finds the random Due South reference. 4. No pigs, plaid or otherwise, were harmed in the making of this fic._
> 
>  _This fic has been approved by the NFB for Canadian Content._

Jensen is a coward. He admits this.

But there is nothing he ever, ever could have done, onscreen or off, to deserve having his girlfriend walk onto set with Misha’s junk swinging out in the wind, and Jared attempting to yank Jensen’s shorts down so they can ask Sera to compare their asses.

Danneel’s face pales, and her lips begin to tremble. Jensen just puts his hands over his face so that he doesn’t have to look at her, or Jared, or Misha’s dick, and imagines that somewhere he can hear the Baby Jesus wailing in horror.

  
***

Jensen is dating Danneel. Jensen loves Danneel. Jensen is in love with Danneel, adores her, wants to father her children and spend the rest of his life with her. He wants to wake up next to her every morning, fall asleep next to her at night, and have mild to severe panic attacks about being without her when he has to go away for filming. Jensen wants Danneel to be his wife.

Jensen is a complete moosefucking coward because he can’t figure out a way to say any of this, and Jared is no goddamn help.

“Come on, it’s not that hard. I got engaged once.” Jared flipped the banana pancakes and rubbed a smudge of flour on the frilly, lime green apron that covered his bare chest. It clashed horribly with his L.L. Bean Signature Plaid boxers. “Granted, it didn’t…well. You know what it didn’t do.” He sighed, and scratched behind his ear with the handle of the spatula.

“Well, what about Genevieve, dude? Are you going to pull that asshole ‘no labels’ shit on her for much longer?”

Jared’s shoulders stiffened as he flipped the pancakes. “That’s none of your business, and you know it. I’m a grownup, so is she, and, we’re, you know, seeing where it goes, and all that, ehrm, that sort of thing.”

Jensen sighed. “Aw, man, I really like her, too. She’s good for you, and she doesn’t treat me or any of our other friends like they’re going to steal you at the first opportunity.”

Jared arched an eyebrow, dumping a plate of pancakes in front of Jensen. “And while we’re on that, Mister Black Cast-Iron Pot, when are you going to man up and do the whole Romeo and Juliet thing with Danni? Minus the daggers and poison and senseless death of best friends, of course.”

Jensen shifted awkwardly in his seat. “It’s not that fucking easy, asshole. I mean, there’s a lot involved. Like the ring! How do I figure out what’s appropriate? I don’t wanna stiff her, but she’d kill me if I got her something that looked like an ice rink.”

Jared slid a plate of pancakes topped with a fried egg across the table, pulled off his apron, and poured Hershey’s syrup on top of his breakfast. “Well, let’s consider the relative values of precious metals. Even though gold is currently at $953 an ounce, it’s a fad. Platinum is a much more stable investment, and holds up better for day-to-day wear. Now, let’s take into account the current market price of blood-free diamonds, such as the easily available Canadian “Polar Bear” gems. If, say, you want to use 10% of your current savings on the ring, we’ll account for the money spent on about two or three ounces of platinum which will be used to construct the band and settings. All you have to do is take the remaining money and divide it by the standard price per carat of diamonds, reserving some small funds for the GST and other provincial taxes, and you’ve got your ring.”

Jensen gaped. “Wuh…huh…”

Jared cut into his stack of chocolate-smothered pancakes, the fried egg on top bleeding its yolk all over the whole disgusting mess. Jensen wrinkled his nose, nauseated. “It’s just math, Jensen. It’s not hard. And you need to stop cussing so much if you want a nice girl like Danneel to consent to giving up all chance of sleeping with Viggo Mortenson.”

Jensen squinted over his breakfast, adding a handful of Smarties to his coffee for an extra sugar jolt. “Dude. What the fuck is your fucking thing with Viggo Mortenson?”

Jared dropped his fork and dove for it before Harley could nab it. His voice sounded higher than normal. “Thing? What thing? I don’t have a thing. There is no thing!”

“Whatever, fag.”

“Aw, go cry into your ballgag.”

Jensen choked on his coffee and scrambled after Jared into the kitchen. “Excuse you very fucking much, what was that?”

Jared fussed with the plates in the dishwasher, making sure that none of them made contact so that they wouldn’t chip. “Dude, it’s not my fault that you’re too timid to ask your domme to collar you already. Now shuddup and help me with the dishes, and then I’ll call Chad for advice, and if you can calm down and keep from slipping into subspace I won’t lie to your Dad that you woke up in tune with your inner Prince Charlie and want a kilt for Christmas.”

Jensen pouts, horrified, torn between a fear of the Jared/Chad apocalypse and his hatred of kilts. Kilts always win.

Really, though, relationship dynamics aren’t as easy for him. The fans say that Jared wears his affections on his sleeve, and it’s true. He doesn’t feel any less deeply than Jensen, but he’s actually able to express it.

Of course, that leads Jared’s partners to believe that he has no real emotional attachment, or that he’s cheating on them when really he’s congratulating a sweet girl on getting away from her emotionally abusive parents. Jared seems to be overt with his affections, but each breakup shatters him so badly he almost can’t get put together again. Hence the distance, the widespread affection, the lack of titles between him and Genevieve. Jensen isn’t sure how much more of it she’ll take – she’s a smart girl, she has prospects – or what her reaction will be in the end.

Jensen, on the other hand, is the real emotional cripple in this odd little family that the four of them have going. He is so fucking in awe of his girlfriend that he can barely tell her he loves her, this fey, fox-red creature that for some reason deigns to spend time in his presence. He’s a coward because he can’t tell her how much he loves her, and he’s especially a coward because he knows it’ll kill him if she goes. And so he’s stuck, stuck with his goddamn shyness, stuck with Jared’s obsession with math and his obliviousness to Jensen’s plight, and most of all stuck with Chad, a man whose idea of high romance is a Whitney Houston boombox serenade.

***

Fans often cite how hot Jensen looked in Priestly’s kilt. Hot was right – it was wool, and it was the middle of the summer in California, and it itched like a motherfucking bastard. Worse, it made Dad call him in a fit of glee and offer to ship him a matching vest if he ever, you know, wanted to wear it for a formal occasion.

Danneel helped him burn it at the cast party, dancing around the fire like a mad Celt, which is a large part of why Jensen loves her.

***

“Okay, son, tell me how this sounds!”

Something from the other end of the line made a noise similar to that of a pig being stuck with a hatpin.

It was oddly appropriate that Dad was calling him today, of all days, considering the fact that Jensen was going to be wearing a goddamn kilt again. Eric had written an episode based around ancient Celtic gods, and for some reason he wanted wardrobe to stick Jensen in full Mel Gibson highlander regalia.

Jensen, himself, has never been anything but Texan. He’s got the hat, and the boots, and he knows how to use him. He likes his steaks big, his belt buckles bigger, and his women with hair and heels that put them those few inches closer to God. Yeah, he’s taken to his adopted Canadian home in some…unexpected…ways, but he’s still a good Texas boy at heart.

Dad, on the other hand, is the family history buff. And not in a Texas-approved way, either. In a state where heirlooms and culture were typically limited to some china and perhaps a pair of spurs, Alan Ackles was known as the only man in the Dallas area to willingly wear a kilt and sporran without any sense of irony. He also spoke some Gaelic, albeit with a truly execrable accent.

When Jensen was about eight years old, some sick individual had given his father a photocopy of a page with the Ackles family crest and a few vague and inaccurate lines as to the origin of the family name. Jensen remembers his father sitting there and staring at it for better than an hour with a hungry look on his face, before declaring that he had business at the local library.

Shortly thereafter, catalogs with names like “Piper’s Cove” and “Spirit of the Highlands” began arriving at the house. These were swiftly followed by suspicious packages in unmarked boxes, and one particularly large box that was found to contain a full set of highland bagpipes. Jensen’s mother was fine with it – “It’s just a musical instrument, sweetheart, not a younger woman or a sportscar” – but Jensen, even at that tender age, knew it was the start of something horrible.

Thus, in spite of what the network therapists tell him, Jensen’s pathological hatred of kilts is an entirely logical reaction. It’s not shameful to hate having your nether regions wrapped in yards of the itchiest substance known to mankind.

Jensen put his phone on speaker and set it on the table in front of him. He squirmed in his seat, trying to adjust his costume – goddamn sporran – and settled just as the bagpipes began to inflate, making it sound as though the pig’s squeals had gone up an octave.

“Hey, Jensen!” Jared bounded over in his regular costume, the lucky bastard. “Is that Papa Ackles calling?”

Jensen sighed and nodded. “Yeah, such as it is.”

The pig on the other end of the phone made a horrible, horrible noise.

Jared tilted his head with a concerned frown. “Did someone hurt an animal? Does your Dad need someone to call the vet for him?”

Jensen sighed and rested his chin on his fist. “No, he’s just inflating the bag and tuning up. The real torment starts in a few minutes – he thinks he’s finally figured out Scotland the Brave, or so Momma says.”

Jared shook his head and blinked. “Say what?”

The pig’s wails increased in volume, and then were suddenly, terribly joined by the sounds of a screaming horse and several mating cats. Misha slunk around the corner and arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

Something shrieked on the other end of the phone, and Jared winced. “Are bagpipes supposed to be that loud?”

Misha nodded sagely. “Yes. It’s an instrument designed to make the enemy shit themselves with terror before running away.” He cocked his head, and then patted Jensen’s shoulder. “Make sure to tell your Dad that’s one of the better renditions of the Scottish national anthem I’ve heard in years.”

Jensen fucking hates all of Scotland and every sheepfucker in it.

A deep, rich female voice spoke over the unholy noise coming from the iPhone. “Ooh, is someone playing the pipes?” Misha’s wife, Vicky, sauntered over and wrapped herself around her husband in a way that would have been obscene in any Quebecoise strip club. (Sera had asked her in for consulting purposes on the current script, though Jensen and Jared had been unable and unwilling to guess why.)

Jensen squirmed again and nodded. “Yeah. He hasn’t gotten much better since the day he bought them, but he still plays them every day. It’s a good thing we have no close neighbors.” Fuck the wardrobe girls for making him wear as little underwear as possible. The wool of the kilt was making his balls itch like a motherfucker.

Misha turned slightly so that he was looking at his wife. “Hey! Guess what?”

“What?

“We’re married! Do you know what that means?”

Vicky made an excited little bounce. It was a cold day, and she was wearing a very thin shirt with an equally obvious lack of a bra. “Ooh! What? What? Tell me tell me tell me!”

Jared followed the whole exchange like it was a tennis match, his eyes wide. Jensen mumbled under his breath, “Do you guys have to do this every half an hour?”

Misha continued, oblivious, gazing at his wife adoringly. “It means that we can have sex whenever we want! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Very much so! Hey – how’s now sound?”

“Can I go film for a little while first?”

She kissed his cheek, a tender gesture, her long fair hair falling across his chest. Jensen’s heart felt sore. “Not a problem, sweetheart. It gives me time to find the heating lube and the really good Swedish condoms. I’ll see you in a few.” She turned and ran off to Misha’s trailer, shouting “Show up naked!” over one pale, beautiful shoulder.

The tortured-pig music trailed off and Alan Ackles said an incomprehensible goodbye in hideously accented Gaelic. Misha sighed happily, and addressed the set at large, “Wow, do I ever love my wife.”

Jared reached over and pinched Jensen’s nipple to get his attention, making him yelp and blush. “See? That could be you and Danni, only with more handcuffs and leather.”

Jensen frowned, feeling down in a way that not even the kilt could account for. “I told you, it’s not that easy, even with you playing the fairy fagmother.”

Jared grinned toothily and slapped Jensen on the shoulder. “No worries, man! I’ve got Chad softening her up for you. She’ll take one look into your big, weepy eyes and want to take a strap to you for the rest of your life. In a loving way, of course.” He grabbed half a dozen cookies, stuffed two into his mouth at once, and bounded off to the set.

The full horror of what his best friend had just said hit Jensen when Jared was out of arm’s reach. He flung himself off the chair, and started running, not caring how much thigh the kilt was showing. “What do you mean Chad is softening her up? What did you do? Jared? Get back here, motherfucker! I will murder you with my kilt, do you hear me? I have a sghian dubh and I will cut off your dick with it so that you never, ever, get to fuck the King of Gondor!”

Jared, standing on his mark, wagged a finger at him. “We’ve had this discussion before, Jensen. I’m almost as worried about your swearing as I am about your table manners.”

“Jaysus Mary and Joseph, you really are a shirt lifter. Why don’t you have a French boyfriend in a little pink polo shirt and skinny purple jeans?” Misha snickered, doing what looked like a shuffling polka around his mark in the middle of the set while jabbing frenetically at his phone. He was probably tweeting the minions again.

“Because I date a girl who wears that stuff, and girls have boobs and I like boobs. Everybody likes boobs.” Jared sighed and rolled his eyes, borrowing Sam’s bitchface. “Jensen, you’re cussing like a Newfie again. What have I told you about spending too much time with Sonny? Your Mother worries that you can’t say the Lord’s name properly anymore.”

Misha hummed quietly to himself, his head all the way back, staring at a cloud. “Hey, guys? Does that one look more like Walt Whitman or a vagina to you? I mean, that bit there could be a nose, or it could be a clitoris.”

Jared looked confused; Jensen, for his own sanity, ignored the crazy liberal who had begun singing “Strawberry Fields Forever” in a minor fifth. “Look, Jared, leave the Closeted Queer Eye for the I Don’t Give A Shit Guy until later, and let’s just film this scene, okay?”

“Yeah, as soon as I get my kilt.”

Jensen blinked. “Huh?” He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

“My kilt, Jen,” Jared explained patiently, “the kilt the wardrobe girls are going to bring to me. Right, girls?”

A voice came faintly from behind the cameras. “We’re not putting Sam in a kilt.”

“What? Why?”

Another voice, somewhat closer, butted in. “Because Ackles has dreamboat gams and you have skinny chicken legs. Can we get shooting now?”

Jared’s jaw dropped in horror, and Jensen felt his stomach sink. “I do not have skinny chicken legs! I have great strong manly legs! Look, I’ll show you!”

He promptly kicked his boots into a corner of the set and whipped off his pants, in full view of God, the Impala, the trees of Vancouver, and anybody with a telephoto lens. “See? There! Thighs like tree trunks!”

Everyone started babbling all at once, someone running for Kripke, Jensen waving Jared’s pants at him and trying to think of a diplomatic way to tell him about Canadian indecency laws, and Sonny the cameraman’s voice bellowing, “Jaysus, b’y, putcher trousers beck awn b’fer ye kitch cauld!” And his family wonders why Jensen’s accent has changed.

Misha looked around him, blinking at Jared clad in nothing from the waist down but a pair of tight black boxer briefs and yelling for someone’s approval of his legs. He turned his wide, blue gaze to Jensen, looked back at Jared, and then began to methodically strip off his costume and fold his clothes neatly on the hood of the Impala.

Jensen threw Jared’s pants at his head, missing, and rushed over to Misha. “No, come on, man, what are you doing, please stop, oh dear God no…”

Misha blinked innocently. “I’m getting naked. I thought that was the general idea Jared was going for with his protest, nudity until we all get kilts. I, for one, find them to be a useful and versatile garment.” He carefully folded Castiel’s trousers on top of the costume shirts, so as not to crease them, and then reached down for his socks. “See? Jared has his shirts off, too.”

Jensen spun around wildly, torn between heading over to where Jared was letting Sera stuff Monopoly money in the waistband of his underwear and stopping Misha from divesting himself of his final garments. A small part of his brain whispered that this must be what it is like having very, very small children who have not yet learned social skills.

“Hey! Jensen! Now they’re saying I have a flat ass! I do not have a flat ass! Come over here and show them that your ass is flatter than mine, c’mon!” Jared ran to meet Jensen, spun him around, and promptly groped for the hem of his kilt. “Here, bend over and we’ll compare asses for Sera. She says her interest is purely scientific.”

Jensen frantically tried to straighten up and bat away his costar’s wandering hands. “Dude, get the fuck off of me, I fucking mean it!”

Jared continued, blithely uncaring. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, Baa Means No, now help a brother out here.”

Danneel came in just as Misha shed his boxers and stepped away from the car, and Jared finally got Jensen’s kilt up over his ass with a loud and enthusiastic “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

And of course, of course the love of Jensen’s life would walk onto set only to be met by a nude Russian and the sight of her boyfriend in full Scottish formal dress apparently about to be sodomized by a six foot six Polack. It’s not like Jensen had been planning on how to propose to her for weeks now or anything.

Danni froze, staring at the scene with obvious confusion and considerable upset. Jared spotted her and leaped away from Jensen, blushing all the way down his neck and rambling “Ohmigod, that totally wasn’t what it looks like, there’s no slash in this episode, Sera would have told us, no, that’s not right, I swear I wasn’t trying to fuck your boyfriend, come on Jensen, back me up here, we were just comparing ass sizes, I swear, no, really-” and on and on and on, until it was nothing more than noise. Jensen, faced with his girlfriends’ upset gaze, could only point over his shoulder and choke out “What he said, all of it.”

Misha, much to Jensen’s uncomprehending horror, was the one to save the situation from complete social disaster by taking a few steps forward and saying brightly, “Excuse me, miss, but aren’t you Jensen’s young lady?”

Danneel turned to face him, glanced below his neck, and went pale. She very swiftly directed her gaze over his shoulder and smiled sweetly. “Yes, I am, and you couldn’t be anyone other than Misha.” Her eyes darted back, but only for a bare moment, enough to color her cheeks.

Misha smiled sweetly and made a little half bow at Danneel, whose lips were pressed together and trembling. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear: Jensen talks about you all the time, and I’m happy to say that you’re even more lovely than he says.” He turned and nodded to the riot of crew, who were slowly parting to make way for a frantic Eric Kripke. “Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to go and have sex with my wife. I’ll come back for my clothes when I’m done.” Jensen, numb from horror, watched Misha’s bare ass scoot off just as Eric caught up with events.

Eric flopped down in a chair and put both his hands over his face. “Why did I hire that hippie nudist to play an angel again?”

Sera leaned over his shoulder. “Because his wife reminded you of Galadriel, and you’ve been nursing a crush since you were twelve?”

“Oh. Yeah. That. Okay, people, we’re taking ten! Jensen, drop your kilt and go kneel for your girlfriend or whatever you kinky freaks do. Jared, go let off a little steam and jerk off to your Aragorn spank bank. Someone with bad eyesight, go and tell Misha that he and his wife need to make it snappy.”

Jensen glanced at Danni’s face, unable to get a read on her mood and trying not to whimper. Jared, positively crimson, with embarrassment, squawked, “I don’t have an Aragorn spank bank!”

“Yeah, everybody knows it’s Eomer he’s hot for.” A gravelly voice purred from behind the Impala, and Jared spun in surprise to see Genevieve slink around the back of the car and sashay over to where they all stood. She came very, very close to Jared, arched her back, and husked, “So, tell me, what is it about him that does it for you? Is it the flowing hair?” She tossed her own locks. “The fierce, dark eyes? Or”, and she leaned closer, her breasts brushing Jared’s bare chest so, so lightly, “is it his long, proud blade that does you in? Do you just want to kneel at his feet, and see him push it towards you”; closer now, denim-clad legs brushing his bare thighs, “and wonder how much you can take before you…just…” She brushed her lips against the underside of his chin, and he shivered, hard. “Before you just snap?”

Jared, gulped, squeaked, and managed a “Hi, Gen. Uh, did you tell me you were going to be on set oh god please get your hands off my ass we’re in front of the cameras not that I don’t like your hands but I think the film is rolling.”

Genevieve turned her head slightly and winked at Jensen, who managed a shaky smile back, and squeezed both her hands on Jared’s ass, hard. “They’re filming? How kind of them. It spares me the trouble of having to do it myself.”

Kripke bent forward and put his head between his knees as though he was going to be sick. “Oh, God, all of you go the fuck away before I kill off all your characters and hire Paris Hilton as a socialite whose family was eaten by zombies.”

Jensen, feeling hopeless, turned and dragged his sorry ass back to his trailer, leaving Jared and his wardrobe concerns to his toothily-grinning maybe-girlfriend. Operating on automatic pilot, he held the door for his silent girlfriend, and then shuffled in after her. He prayed she wouldn’t kill him.

The door clicked shut, and Danneel did the one thing Jensen never expected in this situation – she fell onto his couch and burst into hysterical laughter. “Jesus, if this is what your set is like all the time, no wonder you’re such a basket case. They’re all nutbags.” Her eyeliner had begun to smear; she was weeping with mirth.

Jensen was at a complete loss. “Honey, uh, don’t hurt me for asking but why are you even here?

Danneel giggled a little more, wiping her eyes. “Oh, I just came by to see you, although I didn’t expect to be ambushed by that particular scene. Gen had the same idea, so she gave me a ride. I forgot that she’s acclimated to the level of insanity on this set.”

Jensen sighed and allowed himself to laugh a little. “Yeah, I know. It, uh, didn’t come off that well.” God, he would fucking give his left nut to not be such a tongue-tied sonofabitch. He’s not chatty, and she knows that, but this is just fucking ridiculous.

She waved a hand and grinned, all her teeth showing. “Don’t worry. It was the best laugh I’ve had all week.” Danneel trailed off, and got the look on her face that meant she was going to ask the kind of question to which she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to know the answer.

“Sweetheart? Why did Chad print me out a binder full of J2 slash fanfic?”

Jensen felt his mouth go dry. “He did what?”

“It was a very complete collection, too, with a table of contents and appendices. And he was trying to read Shakespeare, but he kept getting distracted by what he called the heteronormativity and inherent misogyny of the sonnets. He has a special grudge against 130, although 116 seemed to meet with grudging approval.” She squinched her eyes shut and sighed a little, smirking. “Also, he has this whole long lecture on how the real romantic tragedy in Romeo and Juliet is actually the relationship between Romeo and Mercutio. He thinks he’s Mercutio, and I really don’t want to guess who Romeo and Juliet were in that context. He’s been mooning for weeks.” Jensen felt his eyes bug out and she waved her hands frantically. “Don’t worry, Romeo isn’t Jared, but it makes my head hurt to think about it, you know?”

Jensen sighed and scratched the back of his head, feeling slightly less awkward. “I have long since given up trying to decipher Chad, unless it’s something that’s going to get Jared arrested.”

Danneel threw back her head and cackled, a sharp, crackling sound. “Someone’s gotta look out for the poor bastard. It’s like having small children with no social skills.”

She smiled up at him, and he felt his tongue tie up in knots. Everything he wanted to say, everything he felt for her was right there on the tip of it, and he was more useless than abstinence-only sex education.

“So, we’re going to Chad’s Christmas party, yeah?”

Jensen nodded, wishing for a script. Dean was never at a loss for words unless he was written that way. “Um, he’s holding it up here this year, he talked Jared into letting him throw the party at our house.”

Danneel’s eyebrows started to creep up towards her hairline. “Wow. Any particular reason why?”

Jensen sat down next to her and rested his head on her shoulder with a sigh. “We were kicked out of the last three hotels, and one of them threatened to press charges of public lewdness. I actually kind of agree that doing it on private property is safer.”

“Isn’t this year’s theme crossdressing couples?” Danneel leaned back so that they were both stretched out on the couch. She ducked down and nudged her head under Jensen’s chin.

“Yep. Misha and Vicky have something special planned, or so they say. I can’t get anything out of him unless we’re walking between sets, seeing as he’s having it off with his wife every five minutes.” He slung an arm around her waist and pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in. “Jared says he and Chad are going as Berkeley lesbians. They managed to get Jeff to come by leaving long phone messages where they whine about how he’s cheating on Mary Winchester.” Jensen sighed. “He says he’s coming as the bearded lady. I’m gonna have to be pretty drunk before I can see that.”

“Mmm. I have a few ideas of what we could do…”

He turned and hesitantly pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands. I just need to focus on keeping Jared and Misha clothed long enough to wrap up filming, and then”, he swallowed, “I’m all yours.” He was rewarded, and warmed, by another one of those crackling laughs.

Danneel scratched the nape of Jensen’s neck, slowly, and he felt the last of his tension slip away. It felt nice enough for him to ignore the kilt.

“Danni? What was your costume idea?”

***

Jensen is a Nice Boy. Jensen does Nice Boy things, like calling his Momma and volunteering and giving his subway seat to pregnant ladies. Jensen, almost exclusively, has Nice Boy sex, the sort of thing that only gets tagged by the censors because of nudity.

He’s never had any complaints as a lover (with the notable exception of Joanna), but he’s a little worried that he may not be enough for Danneel. Not like that – he doesn’t have Jared’s Cockzilla, but he’s more than well endowed – but, well. He has suspicions about Danneel’s preferences. The locked box at the foot of her bed and the leather corset stuffed at the back of her lingerie drawer are enough of a hint, and that’s without noticing the iron rings attached to her bedframe.

Whatever. They can deal with it. They can work it out between the two of them.

And Jensen, seeing as he is a complete coward (has he mentioned that before?) will go on pretending that he doesn’t get hard at just the thought of what his sweet, darling girlfriend might be hiding in that locked toy chest.

***

Garter belts are an instrument of torture. They, and their associated stockings, were obviously designed by some sadistic hellion to inflict torments upon the wearer greater than the comforts that those items could ever possibly afford. All garter belts should be burnt, and the wearers of them liberated from this slow, pinching hell.

Jensen is able to offer this informed opinion, as he is currently himself wearing a garter belt. And a corset, and matching panties, and strappy heels. And makeup and a flapper dress.

It’s not fair that Danni gets to wear the tux. Then again, he should have remembered her fascination with “The Great Gatsby”. He always knew that book would come back one day to bite them in the ass.

In all honesty, theirs was one of the better costumes. Jared was in a broomstick skirt and “Love Your Mother (Earth)” tank top, toe rings, heavy eyeliner and a belly-dancing scarf around his hips. Chad opted for hemp bracelets and Birkenstocks with his Indian-cotton sundress.

Jensen was nearly certain that neither of them had ever been to Berkeley, but they seemed to be having fun.

Jeff, true to his word, was the bearded lady, complete with the long flowing dress, rouge, eyeshadow, and a week’s worth of scruff. Chad was giving him odd looks that Jensen really, really didn’t want to think about until he’d had a lot more hard alcohol than was in the punch bowl by the door.

Genevieve came late, in white tie and tails. Jensen, then on his fourth martini, noticed that Jared was acting very jumpy and trying to foist her off on every unattached man in the room. The only snippet of conversation he caught was “His prospects are better than mine, you know.”

Misha and his wife showed up as Adam and Eve. Misha had three leaves, two over his nipples in addition to the very welcome groin covering. Vicky, thanks to a nifty little loophole in Canadian law, arrived bare-breasted. Theirs was, of course, the most popular costume.

Jensen got drunk enough rapidly enough that he didn’t really have to worry about much of anything other than staying balanced in his heels.

The party was swirling around him, a cavalcade of colored lights and people and Jared being cornered by Genevieve, who was calling herself George for the evening, and looking as though he was going to faint from fear when she snuck a hand under his skirt. Danneel found Jensen where he was swaying in a corner with Jeff and Misha, all three of them loudly arguing as to the sexual applications of different maple objects. She managed to steer him shakily towards his bedroom, crooning at him, while Misha attempted to make a case for maple syrup, boiled down, as an ecologically and economically responsible alternative to sugar waxing.

Danneel shut the door behind them, and the sound abruptly cut off. She turned and looked at him, a serious expression on her face, and he could feel the moment thickening and stretching between them, something very important stirring under the surface of the silence.

Jensen, as usual, lost all semblance of intelligence and blurted out, “Did you get Chad enough to tell you who his big gay crush is?”

Danneel sighed, gently, and for the barest moment looked disappointed before a comfortable little smirk made its way across her face. She put a hand on Jensen’s shoulder, turning him around, removed his wig to be draped over the top of a lampshade, and slowly began to undo the line of buttons down the back of his dress.

“Yes, actually, I have, and he should have dragged Jeff into one of the spare bedrooms by now.” Jensen’s spine stiffened, and he could feel his vision blur with horror.

“Let me get this straight. Chad’s epic Shakespearian mancrush is on Jeff? Papa Winchester?”

Danneel snickered. “Yep. He likes older men, as well as dominant ones, and Jared made the mistake of letting them hang out with each other.” She paused and tapped her chin with a finger. “Plus, there’s the whole Romeo and Mercutio obsession that he has going on, and he got drunk once and told me that he’d looked up every apothecary in Seattle after Jeff and Mary Jo split to make sure nobody sold him poison.” She shrugged. “Turns out they all sell weed. That’s how he found a dealer up here, I guess.”

The last button on the dress came free, and Danneel moved away to the other side of the room to try and escape the confines of her tuxedo. Jensen sighed in relief as the offending garment slipped down, over his garters and stockings and the damn fool frilly panties, finally pooling around the strappy heels that he eagerly kicked off.

Danni turned around just as he threw the dress over the back of a chair, and he could see her eyes darken and her cheeks flush. Jensen glanced down and realized that he was still clad in all the lingerie she’d so carefully, carefully picked out for him the week before, still made up in lipstick and rouge and mascara. And she obviously liked it.

Jensen, very suddenly, had something of a watershed moment. Normally, he’d try and talk here, say something suave and enchanting and try and sweep her off her feet. Words are not his forte, though, not unless there’s a script, so obviously some other action needs to be taken.

Instead of trying to talk, Jensen took three steps across the room and dropped to his knees, pressing his face into Danni’s stomach through the crisp cotton of her half-unbuttoned tuxedo shirt. She gasped and jerked a little, and her hair fell out of the careful, tight bun that it had been in all evening to cascade down her shoulders.

And somehow, somehow, she dragged him to his feet and threw him on the bed, and somehow he was spread out beneath her, stockings rubbing against the inside of her trousered thigh, and something broke in Jensen and around the point where she was naked and unclipping the garters he started to speak, and by the time she’d lashed his wrists to the bedpost with the shreds of the silk thigh-highs and had yanked the idiotic garter belt and panties halfway down his thighs and was riding him like some ancient fury or goddess unbound he managed to work out, “God, God, Danni, love you, love you so much, don’t leave me, love you, marry me, stay with me, marry me, be mine, please baby please please please…”

Everything he was thinking, everything he was feeling, all of it was showing in his face and his actions and the way he was trying hard, so hard, to be good for her, and he knew it, and for the first time he knew that she could see it too.

The wild look in her eyes that had dominated and terrified him for the past god, what, hour, changed, morphed into something more tender, and then progressed rapidly to a terrible, powerful joy.

“You mean it. You mean all of it.” Her hands were shaking as she freed his wrists, rubbed life back into his fingers; her mouth was shaking as she pressed her lips to his arms and shoulders and the claw marks she’d left on his chest.

Jensen nodded, curling onto his side and resting his head on her belly and his hand over her heart.

“Yes. And you mean everything.”

He didn’t have to hear her speak to know her answer. He could hear her smiling.

***

Jensen wasn’t the first one to crawl out of bed the next morning. Jared was sitting at their kitchen table, surrounded by the remnants of Melon Ball shots and Jagerbombs. He was staring into the middle distance with a blank look of astonishment on his face.

He was also very nearly naked, wearing nothing but a ripped-short version of last night’s hippie skirt. Going to bed with Genevieve had clearly killed a large portion of his brain cells, for better or worse.

Jensen sat down at the table, gingerly. “You do know that I was teasing you with all those fag comments, right?”

Jared didn’t so much as blink. “Apparently not. I didn’t know Genevieve’d brought a strap-on to the party with her. Even if she did come as a hermaphrodite.”

“Dude, it’s okay, that doesn’t make you gay, it means you appreciate your prostate. I don’t think she’ll kill you for that.”

Jared shook his head, slowly. “I let Genevieve ask me to marry her and said yes and let her fuck me with a sparkly blue dildo and a brocade strap-on harness. That renders everything else null and void. There is no math to explain that.” He turned to Jensen, suddenly, panic rising in his face. “Oh, God, Jensen, there’s no math. What do I do if there’s no math!”

A soft footstep slapped on the stairs, and Danneel padded around the corner, wrapped in the emerald silk robe that Jensen had bought her last year for Christmas. Her hair was an utter rat’s nest, her makeup was smeared all over her face, she had pillow creases in her cheeks, and Jensen couldn’t think of a time when she’d been more lovely.

She sank down in the chair between them and tied her hair in a knot to get it out of her face. “Jared? Are you all right?”

“No! Nothing is all right! Nothing is right at all! I got fucked in the ass by a girl and liked it and I got engaged and Lord Elrond is going to kill me with the power of Nenya and throw my drowned body in the fires of Mount Doom when I eventually hurt the woman who’s a dead ringer for Undomiel! I’m a dead man who likes getting fucked by his fiancée’s dildo!”

Jensen looked at Danneel helplessly.

She winked, then turned to Jared and cooed in her sweet little voice, “Then why don’t you tell her that? Firstly, she’s been patient enough to put up with all of your protestations that you’re not really serious. Secondly, she has done everything that she can think of to prove herself to you; she’s patient, she’s kind, she’s neither jealous of Jensen nor boastful of being seen in your company, and that’s just the start of it.” She ticked off the points on her long, graceful fingers, still speaking as though to a very frightened puppy. “Oh, and it’s entirely obvious that your whole Aragorn obsession is a jealousy lens for how possessive you feel towards Genevieve – you said she looked like Arwen to you, didn’t you? – and how Aragorn represents the masculine perfection that you’re afraid will take her away from you.”

Trying to follow that made Jensen’s head hurt, though what he managed to grasp made some sense.

Jared sat there, his mouth gaping, and then shut it with a snap, looking thoughtful.

Danneel patted his hand, and said gravely, “Even a numbered list counts as math, Jared.” She gestured widely. “Go forth. Be your own Aragorn.”

The next thing Jensen knew, his housemate was across the downstairs, calling “Gen, baby? Did I ever tell you who you remind me of? Also, are you totally opposed to bedroom roleplay?”

Jensen turned to his fiancée as she stood up from the table and stretched. “Does this mean I’m going to have to give Gen the ‘Don’t Hurt My Jared’ talk? Because I really don’t want to right now, I mean I like her and all, but there’s some things I don’t want to walk in on, and I really, really don’t want to hear Chad and Jeff going at it down the hall.” He shivered. “It’s just wrong, it is.”

Danni adjusted her robe and unknotted her hair. “It’s okay, I’ll do it. After all, now that we’re engaged, he’s legally going to by my Jared, too, and I won’t have a panic attack if I see Gen’s boobs or hear Chad screaming “Fuck me harder, Daddy!”

Jensen tried to get up, protesting “No, it’s really my responsibility, you shouldn’t have to…” A small, gentle hand to his shoulder stopped him, and he looked up into Danni’s face, confused.

She smiled at him, and leaned down to press a sweet, dear kiss right beneath his eye. He could smell the remnants of her perfume. “Let me take this one, sweetie, and then I’ll come back to bed and rub some aloe on your scratch marks while I blow you. Okay?”

Jensen looked up at this wonderful, beautiful woman, who had somehow consented to marry a hopeless fucking schmuck like him, and thought, I will love you this much for the rest of my life.

“Yes’m.”

“Attaboy.”


End file.
